


Don’t say shit unless you know for sure it helps

by Complicity



Series: Put your hands where my eyes can see them [3]
Category: Justified
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gutterson bad language, M/M, Post Season 4, scenes of a sexual nature.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-15 03:46:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16925868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Complicity/pseuds/Complicity
Summary: Raylan has buried Arlo and Tim has shot Colt, Mark’s murder is being investigated, Raylan and Winona involved in a gun fight for their lives and Tim is pretty sure Raylan organised the shooting of Nicky Augustine using Boyd to drive him. Death and destruction and career threatening decisions and all Tim knows his he needs to get out of his own head. Being with Raylan is probably the last thing he needs.





	Don’t say shit unless you know for sure it helps

_And got hands like an ocean  
Push you out, pull you back in_

_Julia Michaels_

The rain that had been falling on him kept falling. Started as Tim was halfway to Harlan and got heavier as he sat in the car pulled up outside Raylan’s begrudged inheritance, watched the view drown as he sat there after killing the engine. Inside the car all he could hear was the sound of the torrent on the roof. It was like he was sitting inside a waterfall. The incoming text made him jump, knocking the neck of the bottle against his teeth.

[Is this your idea of a stakeout?]

Then [Doors not locked no need to kick it down]

For a moment he contemplated simply reversing away, all the Dutch courage he has swallowed swilling in his belly, but he wanted a piss and he badly wanted to see Raylan even more. The violence the rain promised made good as he opened the door, soaking first his legs and then shoulders as he jogged across the yard and pushed at the door and kept on walking in a straight a line as he could until he found Raylan sitting in the living room lit only by a single lamp, leant back in an armchair, a slight raise of his chin his only greeting. Tim stood dripping on the rug before him, letting Raylan look him up and down.

He had taken Raylan’s texts for jokes until he saw the gun on the side table, Raylan’s hand resting comfortably on the armrest, inches from it. If he had positioned the lamp on purpose so he was mainly in shadow apart from his gun hand Tim had no idea but even if by accident he was making a very big point.

“You expecting somebody?” Tim nodded at the gun.

“I wasn’t expecting you. Art send you?”

The swirling, grinding suspicions that had been giving Tim gut ache for the past few days felt like a physical weight on his chest. He had tried to swallow, to see if he could shift it before it settled into full blown anxiety.

“Why would Art send me Raylan? You’re on suspension.”

Raylan shrugged. God he was shit at feigning innocence. Tim swallowed against the bile rising in his throat, his anger so palpable it pushed at the back of his teeth.

“You do know that Art knows how to use the GPS tracker? He might like to pretend he’s old school but he – “ Tim had stopped himself before he started to shout. “You want plausible deniability? Don’t leave your fucking car outside Boyd fucking Crowder’s fucking bar for 24 hours.”

Raylan kept silent, but Tim knew he was being watched oh so carefully from out of those shadows. 

“You gonna say anything?” In his frustration Tim threw an arm wide and then cursed himself when the momentum caused him to tip off centre, the slugs of bourbon he had chugged down betraying his body.”

Raylan leant forward then, put both feet on the floor and Tim noticed his feet were bare. “You been drinkin’? He ain’t gonna shoot me thought Tim, not in bare feet. “You drove here like that? You want to lose your job?” 

It was funny, it really was and Tim started laughing, tipping his head to the ceiling as the emotion took over and then bending in an attempt to get more air into his lungs, before shoving the side of his fist into his mouth when he realised that his body was having a problem deciding between laughing and crying. He turned his back on Raylan then, pulling his hands through his hair. 

He hadn’t realised Raylan had left the room until a towel landed on his head, thrown by Raylan from the kitchen. He scrubbed at his hair. Under his coat his t-shirt was still dry and he toed off his boots. From somewhere behind him, in the kitchen maybe, he could hear Raylan moving about, a tap running. Tim patted at his face with the towel, it smelt of fabric conditioner and a little musty. Out of habit Tim refolded it and hung it over the back of a chair. 

As he turned he saw Raylan had come back out of the kitchen, holding a glass of what looked like bourbon. Just the one glass. The absurdity of the situation made him feel more sober. Raylan seriously considering that maybe Tim had been sent to bring him in for a crime that could put him away for life and he was being sanctimonious about Tim’s drinking?

“Why are you here then?”

“I- _was worried about you? Shit scared you’ve done something really stupid? Missed you?_ \- I uh- I had time owing. Heard that Harlan was nice at this time of year.”

“Your decision then? To come here?”

“Yeah, in light of our last heart to heart, thought you might be lonely, looking for a fuck.”

Shit. That didn’t come out nearly as funny as Tim had hoped. Raylan looked at him, that hint of anger in the line of his jaw, carried on looking at him as he took a swallow of his drink.

“As long as we’re both Marshals, you know you cannot ask me any question that you ain’t gonna like the answer to, you know that, right?”

“We ain’t talking about sex here are we?”

“Nope son we are not.”

“I ain’t your-“

“I don’t want any of you – Art, Rachel, you – to have to be in that position.”

“You trust Boyd Crowder more?”

“I trust him far less. I understand him more tho’.”

They stood there, looking at one another across the living room.

“I need a piss.”

“Bathroom’s other side of the kitchen. Help yourself.”

The vanity basin was a sludgy green. Beth had told him once it was called avocado. They had been standing in the funeral home washroom, taking a long time to dry their hands, both finding an excuse to get away from his father. Tim looked at himself now in the mirror, twenty years later, eyes red rimmed again. 

He came back out into the kitchen and found Raylan pulling sliced bread out of a bag. “Here, fix yourself a cheese sandwich. You want a coffee?” Tim shook his head and Raylan seemingly lost interest in being a host and went back into the living room. If he had ever stopped to think about, which he hadn’t up until now, Tim would’ve pegged Raylan as a plastic cheese type of guy but the block on the wooden board on the table was something fancy looking. He sawed awkward chunks off and then chewed around the sandwich regretting not having anything to wash it down with. He drank some water directly from the tap when he cleared his plate and knife away to the sink.

When he walked back into the living room Raylan had still not put any more lamps on. A flash of lightening lit up the room and Tim turned to the French windows to look out. The rain had let up but water was dripping from the eaves, bouncing on the boards of the porch and into an old metal container, look liked it had once held flowers, been cared for. He could hear the ping on the metal through the French windows. He put one hand up to lean on the frame. Lightening forked again in the sky, back the way he had driven up. He counted to four, before he heard the thunder. Four miles. Sean had taught him that, back before when.

 _“You kill him”_  
_“I'm sorry about what happened to your friend Mark, but I think most of him died somewhere in Kandahar.”_  
_“The only part I'm concerned about is the part that died here.”_  


So many deaths and Winona’s belly protected in the only way Raylan seemed to know how, at the end of a gun. How many men had died for the life of that little girl because shit knows what had gone down on the night of Nicky Augustine’s slaughter? It had been the longest ten days of Tim’s life - the hunt for a man dead thirty years, Mark reaching out, Colt's unravelling - and he was bone tired. Somehow however hard he had tried running in the opposite direction he had ended up here like Alice in a very screwed up looking-glass world; in the Given’s homestead with the only surviving member – the one man who was going to be the opposite of good for him right now.

"I didn't - drive here, drunk - I, unh, I had the bottle unopened in the car. Thought you could do with supplies. I drunk some when I parked up." 

"What changed your mind about keepin' it for me?"

He felt rather than heard Raylan move into the space behind him. Tim remembered the bare feet.

“You want to talk about something?”

_"I think most of him died somewhere in Kandahar.”_

“Don’t ask questions Raylan, remember.” Let Raylan take that anyway he wanted to.

Felt him step closer, standing right behind him, half a head taller, close enough he could hear him breathing. With the lights off in the living room he could see both of them part reflected in the window, not clear though, parts of the jigsaw, not all of it.

Raylan raised his hand and from a brief flash of memory Tim thought he was going to get a slap to the back of the head, prepared to shy away from it. Instead Raylan tugged gently at Tim’s hair at the nape of his neck and bent to breath on the bare patch of skin between the edge of his t-shirt and the curl of hair. I need to get it cut for the funeral, thought Tim. 

Raylan’s breath on his neck was a question. Tim knew he didn’t have to answer it. Raylan wouldn’t push for an answer, not with how things were between them at the moment.

He lifted his right arm from his side, moved his hand to his own belt, pulled the leather through the buckle, let it drop open, flicked open the button at the top of his fly, pulled down the zipper. Even if Raylan hadn’t felt or seen the action that left him with hearing the clink of the buckle as it dropped, the slide of the metal of the zip. That was his answer. 

Raylan breathed in and out on his neck and his left hand joined Tim’s on the window frame while his right slid round Tim’s waist to his belly, rested there warm for a moment and then his fingers pushed under the waistband of Tim’s shorts and his thumb and forefinger were round his cock, three other fingers rolling his balls, his ring cold against Tim’s skin.

Tim shut his eyes. Didn’t care to watch Raylan undoing him, the pleasure making him drop his head back on Raylan’s shoulder because he wanted Raylan’s mouth on his neck. He pushed his waist band further down his hips, impatient for Raylan to pull harder and faster, grabbed Raylan’s left hand and pushed it onto his skin, up under his t-shirt, stood as tall as he could so his groin was stretched out, the skin on his belly taut. He wanted to be as exposed as possible, as vulnerable as he could be.

Imagined he didn’t have to be here for this. That Raylan could be standing here on his own, stroking in his own cock with his long fingers, bracing himself on the window frame, watching the valley light up with the storm. That image pushed him near the edge, dragged a moan out of him. Raylan gripped him tighter, fingers of his left hand spread out on Tim’s chest, grazing a nipple. Tim groaned again, pushing his head right back as he was looking up at the ceiling, wrapping his arm round the back of Raylan’s head to push his mouth harder onto his neck, felt Raylan’s teeth graze his neck. He came, and put his hand over Raylan’s on his cock. Even as he was coming he felt wrong to leave a mess.

“Don’t … don’t move.” His voice snagged in his throat, had to give it a second go. He pulled his t-shirt over his head with his left hand, then wriggled his left arm out of it, dragging it over his right arm and over both their hands, so for a moment their hands were wrapped together inside the soft cloth.

“You know, I could have just cleaned up later. This floor’s seen worse.”

“Isn’t that my job? Cleaning up after.”

They both looked out the window, looking at each other in the glass. Tim put his hand behind him, cupped Raylan through his jeans. Raylan breathed out against Tim’s neck and then gently moved back. “Later maybe.” 

Tim wiped his hand and then released the grip on the t-shirt so Raylan could step right away.

“You stayin’ the night? Or are you all sobered up?”

Tim shrugged.” Couch looks long enough.”

“There’s a bed upstairs made up”. Raylan had a tired smile. “Or the RV.”

“Arlo’s bed?”

Raylan shot him a look, raised eyebrows that said ‘really?’

“Guest room. Clean sheets.” 

“Fancy.”

“Yeah. Not my taste in wallpaper, just warning ya. “And then when Tim still hesitated, “You look dead on your feet son. Go on up. I’ll bring you up some water.”

Tim didn’t have the energy to call Raylan out for the son or to bother rezipping his fly. He climbed the stairs with heavy limbs while Raylan ran the faucet in the kitchen and the flow of water made Tim realise how dry is throat was, and hot.

“Got any ice? “ He tried shouting it but wasn’t sure if Raylan heard.

“Turn left at the top,” Raylan called after him but when he caught up with Tim he found him stalled on the landing, looking in at an open door. 

“Yeah, not that one,” and he tugged Tim away from the Evart’s pennants that covered the bedroom walls, curled and cracked. Tim let Raylan guide him with a push in his back. Steered Tim into a room with a double bed, decked out in pink florals.

Tim sat on the bed. He knew the room would be too cosy with the lamp on. “Keep the drapes open.” His throat was still dry. Raylan let his hand drop from the flowered cloth. 

Raylan switched off the lamp and they both looked out at the storm, Raylan standing there. Tim sitting on the edge of the bed. Another fork of lightening.

“Three,” they said together. And only then looked at each other

“Gettin’ closer,” said Raylan.

He started to shuck off his jeans and caught Tim’s expression, the question in his face. “What? This is the only bed with clean sheets. I ain’t making up another.”

Raylan t left his jeans and shirt in a heap on the floor and then lifted the covers to climb into the bed in his shorts and undershirt. “You can keep one foot on the floor.”

Even so Tim didn’t move, waiting for Raylan to pull the sheet over his legs, the light from the window spilling across his face. 

“You planning on getting in? Or you experimentin’ in telekinesis now? Moving the blankets over to you. I read an article once about training soldiers to do that.”

“That was a film jackass. And it wasn’t about- it was, never mind. And it was goats.”

Raylan grinned. “That’s what you Ranger’s get up to? Fucking with goats?”

“Yeah, we did that like literally none of the time.”

Raylan had put a glass of water with ice cubes in it on the dresser. Tim took a drink, wiping the rim of water left on the wood with the t shirt still gripped in his hand. Swallowed the water. He pulled the sheet back, and let his eyes run the length of Raylan’s body.

“You don't need to return the... the favour. I ain’t asking.”

“I know,” said Tim. “You’re gonna want to take those off. “

“That so?” But Raylan pushed the waistband of his shorts down. Tim pulled them all the way down his legs, over Raylan’s feet, dropped them on the floor and then wrapped a hand round one of Raylan’s ankles.

“Ah,” Raylan’s voice part groan, part sharp breath in, shocked by the cold of the ice cube still in Tim’s mouth as it closed round his dick.

**Author's Note:**

> The title of the work is a quote from the TV show Justified Season 4. The lines of dialogue in italics are quoted from the show as well.


End file.
